Page 15 of Tattooed Vow

The request surprises me. No one has ever asked about them besides Talia. Most people tiptoe around my past, sensing the landmines but never wanting to trigger them.

I take a slow sip of coffee, choosing my words before answering. “They were addicts. In and out of rehab, mostly out. I was in the system by the time I was five.”

His expression tightens, a hint of darkness passing over his face. It’s not pity. It’s something deeper, more visceral.

“I bounced around a lot,” I continue, feeling like I owe him more. “Homes, shelters, temporary placements... I lost count after a while. Some were decent. Others...” I unconsciously rub at a small, barely visible scar on my forearm. “I learned early that I couldn’t depend on anyone. They either left, got high, or just stopped caring.”

Dimitri’s eyes track the movement of my fingers over the scar, but he doesn’t comment on it.

His brow furrows. “And Talia?”

A small, genuine smile tugs at my lips. “Talia was different. We met at a group home when we were teenagers. She was stubborn and mouthy, just like me, but scared. We became each other’s anchors. The one thing I could count on. She didn’t try to fix me,and I never tried to fix her. We just survived and took care of each other.”

“She speaks highly of you.”

I blink. “She does?”

“All the time,” he says, reaching for another piece of bacon. “Says you’re the strongest person she’s ever known. That you walked through fire and came out fireproof.”

I stare at the countertop, emotions I’m unprepared for twisting in my chest. Talia has always been my champion, but hearing that she speaks of me to others, to someone like Dimitri, makes my throat tighten.

“I don’t always feel strong.”

Dimitri shakes his head. “Strength isn’t about feeling it. It’s about surviving when you don’t.”

The words sink deep, burrowing into my mind like a truth I’ve been searching for. Coming from him, a man who understands survival better than most, they hit harder.

“What about you?” I ask, curious now. “Your parents?”

He’s quiet for a long time, and I almost think he won’t answer. Something shifts in his expression like shutters closing over a window.

“My father died when I was young. A car accident in Russia,” he says, his accent growing thicker as he speaks of home. “My mother remarried not long after. That’s how I ended up here, under Otets’ roof.”

His tone is detached, but I catch the tension in his shoulders, and his fingers flex slightly around his coffee mug. There’s more to that story, but I don’t push.

“Did you like him? Otets?”

He lets out a dry chuckle. “Well enough. But liking him wasn’t part of the deal. Respect was. He taught me discipline. Power. Fear.”

I wince. “That sounds...harsh.”

“It was,” Dimitri admits. “But it’s all I’ve ever known. It made me who I am. It prepared me for the world I live in.”

The silence settles between us, comfortable yet charged with unspoken understanding. Two people shaped by different forms of abandonment find unexpected common ground over breakfast.

I chew on my lip before asking, “Is that why you’re so good with the kids? I watch you with Sasha, Maxim, and Angelina. You’re different with them. Softer.”

His eyes widen slightly. At the party, I saw how he transformed around our nieces and nephews, how his whole demeanor changed, the dangerous edge melting away.

Something flashes in his eyes. “Children don’t lie. They don’t play the games adults do. I respect that.” He pauses, looking down at his hands. “And they deserve better than what we had.”

The confession is raw and honest. I didn’t expect this vulnerability from him. It makes him suddenly, dangerously human.

“Did you ever think about having kids?” The question slips out before I can stop it.

He tilts his head, studying me intently. The morning light catches the angles of his face, softening the hard lines. “Have you?”

I swallow the lump in my throat. “I don’t think I’d be good at it. Not like Talia. She’s patient and kind and knows how to be soft. I’m not like that. I’m...” I gesture vaguely, searching for the right word. “Prickly. Defensive. I’d probably mess them up worse than I am.”

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